Author's note: I'm taking a lot of artistic liberties with this one. A lot. Not much is known about Stefan's past, but I plan to talk about it. Trying to keep this as accurate as possible.


Mornings are the only consistency, the one thing he knows will never change. With the rising sun behind him, Stefan balances the hilt of the blade on his palm, comforted by its familiar heft. He slowly wraps his fingers around the grip, one by one, before slicing the empty air before him.

His family leaves him alone. It is what he calls them, despite their lack of biological relations. They share different blood, yet all their blood is tainted. The exiled. The Branded.

Children peer from their windows, watching their leader train. His steps are quick on the sand; their young feet still have not grown accustomed to the desert. His tread is light, whipping around with the blade, listening to the satisfying swoosh as it clears the air.

They are, of course, not children in the traditional sense. Some have lived for decades, banished by the beorc they lived amongst. But it is difficult, relocating every few years, when people grow suspicious. Or when they're discovered, when the mark is accidentally revealed to one who does not understand.

Stefan stops suddenly, the sword frozen horizontally before him. "Someone is here," he says, lifting his head slightly to sniff the air.

"What is it, Father?" A young-looking girl next door leans farther out her window. She watches him every morning; it is their own secret ritual. She has called him 'Father' from the moment she arrived. It is not unusual. Many of them do. It both pains and pleases him.

"Hm." The scent has vanished, but it unsettles him. He sheathes his blade as he approaches his neighbor. "I am unsure. I thought something was fast approaching, but it seems to have left just as quickly." He stares at the horizon, in the direction of Begnion. His thumb mindlessly massages his sword's hilt. "I'll investigate." Before she can reply, he has scurried toward the edge of the desert. Despite how long some of them have lived beside him, they still cannot understand how quickly he moves.

It is almost child-like, his excitement to scope out the area. It is still early, and the change in his usual ritual thrills him.

Disappointed, Stefan sees nothing. But that isn't possible. He knows there was something there. He plops down on the sand, cross-legged, looking out toward the desert ruins. An early breeze ruffles his hair; if anyone were nearby they could glimpse the brand etched on his forehead. But he sits alone, watching the ruins, waiting. Something is bound to happen, and his nerves prickle with the anticipation.

After time, there is a hazy movement along the horizon. He observes the heads of the knights first, perched atop their steeds. The desert is not kind to them; the horses are hindered by the sand. He sees the rest of the slowly emerge on foot. The only ones not struggling in their walk are those wearing robes: the mages and priests. Stefan sighs. A beorc army. Typical.

"Why do they bring their battles to my soil?" He reclines, supporting himself on outstretched arms as he buries his fingers in the sand. Stefan watches as laguz emerge from the ruins, quickly advancing on the approaching beorc. And though the latter is unprepared—obviously so, judging by their slight hesitation—they meet their foes head-on. Curious. Why would a beorc army bother themselves with laguz all the way out here?

"It is none of our concern," he says aloud, to no one. "This battle has nothing to do with me." The sun slowly crawls upward, its orange glow stretching across the sands—and the intruders. He sighs. "Ignorance. They think they own the land. They never stop to consider they may have to share with others."

He rises, groaning as he stretches his arms overhead. But before he can turn to go home, he freezes. There it is again. Amidst the bloodied crowd, that scent has returned. Stefan eagerly bounces on his toes as he tries to scan the mass of soldiers. He is unable to see who it is, but he senses it. A misplaced soul, someone trying to fit in with the beorc around him. His kindred.

Stefan's heart fills with joy and sorrow, a quickened pulse within his chest. But it's impossible to see through the battle. The soldiers are mere beige shadows, lost in the swirling sands of their own skirmish. He squints upward at a group of hawks, the only ones clearly visible above the battle, until they swoop down with extended claws.

There are few of the Branded—that is, compared to other species in Tellius—and they are so scattered, that he has traveled far beyond the desert to find them. But what a stroke of luck, for one to be so close to home! Stefan mechanically grips the hilt of his sword. He wants to run into the midst, cut them all down and throw this unknown child over his shoulder. But he resists. He knows he's out there, but it is not yet time for them to encounter.

That is often how it works. He waits for them, anticipating, and—eventually—the invitation. He's no fool. He knows the self-acceptance is a bitter pill, and no one wants to truly believe he's shunned from society. Even from this distance, despite not knowing who it is, Stefan feels it: Bitterness; loneliness. The last threads of hope that maybe, despite everything, it's not true.

But of course it's true. They can deny it all they want, but you can't ignore it when you notice how quickly those around you are aging.

That's when he will make his move.

He does not intend to be a savior, but many of his residents view him as such. He lacked a mentor of his own, someone to understand. Back then, very few understood what the Brand meant. He had to learn the hard way. Despite the years, he never forgot how it felt. He closes his eyes against the wind, listening to the agony of battle. What a strange time to feel nostalgic.